‘She says she wad like to see ye alone, sir. “It’ll no keep,” she says.’
‘Impertinent woman!’ exclaimed Mrs. Somerville, ‘what can she have to say that I am not supposed to hear?’
‘I would do a good deal to oblige her,’ said Somerville, dragging himself up. ‘Show her into the next room.’
Granny Stirk had put on her pebble brooch; the little woollen shawl, crossed over her chest with its long ends tied behind the waist, was of a bright red and black check; her head was bare and her thick iron-gray hair held by a black net; her gold earrings shone. An indefinable rush of fresh air, brine, and tar came in with her.
‘Sit down, Mrs. Stirk,’ said Somerville, as he stumped in. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘Sir,’ said she, ‘could ye tell me what’s come of the Laird o’ Whanland?’
‘God bless me!’ exclaimed the astonished sailor, ‘I think he’s in Spain.’
‘Does he no write ye? A’ mind he was aye billies[[1]] wi’ you.’
‘I have heard nothing of him since he left.’
She made a gesture of dismay.